


diaphanous

by t4tterdemalion



Series: threadbared [2]
Category: White Christmas (1954)
Genre: Boys in Skirts, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, FIRST EXPLICIT WORK IN THIS PAIRING BABY, Judy and Betty may have started this but Bob really took the baton and ran with it, M/M, OH LORD, Panties, Phil Davis is flustered as usual, Resolved Romantic Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Stockings, brainrot, close enough, it's not a skirt it's a dress but you know, merry christmas lmao, misuse of a piano, sorry - Freeform, yall asked and I delivered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t4tterdemalion/pseuds/t4tterdemalion
Summary: Phil’s sure his mouth is hanging open again. Bob’s still looking right at him, and he pulls Phil closer, so they’re pressed chest to chest. “Phil,” he says, his voice dropping low, “will you wear it for me?”
Relationships: Phil Davis/Bob Wallace
Series: threadbared [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054253
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	diaphanous

**Author's Note:**

> "and yet one arrives somehow,  
> finds himself loosening the hooks of  
> her dress  
> in a strange bedroom—  
> feels the autumn  
> dropping its silk and linen leaves  
> about her ankles."  
> \- arrival by william carlos williams
> 
> well, the people have asked, and so I shall deliver!  
> there's a little bit of romance in here, because of course there is, these two are THE BIGGEST SAPS and are completely head over heels for each other no matter how horny they are, but everyone gets smut for christmas :)
> 
> also! a side note: there's use of one piece of actual ballroom dancing terminology in this because I couldn't think of a more graceful way to describe it and they would have both known the term anyway as professional dancers  
> "cape position" is when the leader will step slightly behind the follower and have their arms held up with hands linked, making the leader look almost like a cape that the follower would be wearing. this is also called "shadow position"  
> pls google for pictures if ur confused this is why I ended up just using the term

Phil is losing his mind, surely.

That’s the only explanation for the way Bob keeps _looking_ at him, keeps staring at him and doesn’t look away when Phil notices. He’s sure he’s never blushed so much in his life as in the past few days, thinking about Bob’s hands on his waist, driving himself to distraction.

And then just when he thinks things can’t get worse, Bob starts _touching_ him, casually, constantly; a hand on his knee under the table, an arm at his back guiding him as they walk together, moving Phil out of the way with light brushes of his fingers that send shivers down Phil’s spine.

He’s doing it now, absently stroking lines at the small of Phil’s back while they watch Betty run choreography for the minstrel act in a test costume. Phil clears his throat, trying not to lean into Bob’s hand, and nods at Betty’s dress. “She looks great in it, doesn’t she? Your seamstress did a hell of a job.”

“Mmm,” Bob returns, tilting his head, “I like it,” and Phil feels all five fingers of Bob’s hand spread hot over his back. “But I think it’d look better on you.”

Phil chokes a little, flushing, but before he can even think of anything to say to that, Betty comes up to them and whisks Bob away to practice choreography for a different number. Bob’s hand smooths across his back as he goes, and Phil practically runs out of the room, his ears burning.

He surreptitiously avoids Bob for the rest of the day, loitering in obscure areas, bothering the showgirls and backup dancers, and finally retiring to their room early so he can pretend to be asleep when Bob comes in.

But Bob doesn’t come in, and Phil is stuck tossing and turning in his bed, trying in vain not to think of blue lace or blue eyes. It’s so late that the main lodge is dark, the moonlight throwing patterns across the ceiling.

Phil rolls over and punches his pillow into a different place for the thousandth time, and resolutely closes his eyes.

Five minutes later he sits up violently and kicks his blankets off, jamming his feet into his slippers and yanking an overcoat off the hooks near the door, wrapping it around himself as he crosses the cold stillness of the grounds, heading for the barn they’ve partitioned off into rehearsal rooms. Phil shuts the barn door behind him resentfully, listening to it echo in the dark, and resigns himself to wandering around until he gets too tired to stand.

He’s just noticed that the overcoat hem is too short and he may have grabbed Bob’s coat accidentally when he hears a distant snatch of music somewhere off in the dark. It’s too much to hope that it won’t be Bob, Phil knows as he makes his clumsy way through set pieces and racks of costumes towards the drifting tune, but somehow he’s still a little surprised when he turns a corner and Bob is right there, waltzing with a broomstick under a spotlight on the false stage they’ve set up.

Phil just watches for a minute, watches his capable hands spin the broomstick, hold it gently, and feels the ghost of those hands at his hips, on his back. He clears his throat hurriedly, and Bob jumps a little.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

Bob smiles in that disarming way of his, laying the broom aside and coming to the edge of the stage. “No, not at all, me and my buddy here were just brainstorming an extra number. Restart that record for me, will you?”

Phil crosses to the gramophone and resets the needle, and listens to the first gentle piano notes, the sultry voice of the female singer, a subtle percussion and bass. He turns to ask Bob just where this song came from, why he’s rehearsing for it in the middle of the night, but Bob is holding out a hand for him from the stage, and Phil can’t really think of anything to do but grab it.

Bob pulls as he steps up, and Phil is on the stage but Bob keeps pulling, pulls him closer.

“Now see, it’ll be something like this,” Bob murmurs, and then they’re dancing. Phil’s caught, entirely trapped by Bob’s steady hands and his smooth voice and his blue, blue gaze, waltzing with Bob in his overcoat in the middle of the night.

Bob’s hand rests at his back, and he catches the material of the coat between his fingers, brows furrowing. “Is this mine?”

Phil wishes fervently that his ears wouldn’t turn a lovely deep shade of pink. “Uh, yes, but. I was sort of rushing out, and I grabbed yours instead, and I didn’t mean to—“

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Bob laughs gently, his eyes crinkling as he smiles, Phil’s stomach fluttering, “I like it on you.”

They dance for another few turns, Bob looking at Phil, Phil mostly looking at the ground, and then Bob says, “Would you do something for me?”

“Well— it depends on what it is,” Phil says, his voice jumping a little bit.

Bob hesitates for a moment. “Would you mind putting on the test costume for this number?”

Phil almost stops dead, but Bob keeps leading him in a gentle waltz.

“I know it’s kind of a crazy thing to ask, but I want to test this choreography, and there’s no one around for me to practice with but that old broomstick over there.”

Phil’s sure his mouth is hanging open again. Bob’s still looking right at him, and he pulls Phil closer, so they’re pressed chest to chest. “Phil,” he says, his voice dropping low, “will you wear it for me?”

This is the part where Phil should rub his injured arm, run away and never look back, but something in Bob’s eyes makes him shiver hot all over, and the words that finally squeak out of his mouth are “Yeah, okay.”

———

This is the second time in a week that Phil’s stood behind a screen and prepared himself to squeeze into a dress, but this one ends up being much easier than the last. The white material is light, almost delicate, and there’s layers and layers of it that swish around his ankles at the slightest movement.

He cautiously does up a tiny black row of jewel-like buttons that run up the front to the neckline, praying that none of them pop off, and pulls on little black satin gloves. There’s simple black dancing slippers sitting under a pile of white....something.

Phil bends carefully to pick up the lump of material and almost drops it again when he realizes what it is; women’s panties that are barely a scrap of white silk, with garter straps attached to the hems, and sheer white stockings, all of it edged with white lace.

Heat sweeps over him like a wave, and he’s suddenly almost painfully hard under the dress thinking about Bob picking this out, laying it here, knowing Phil would be wearing it—

There’s a knock on the screen and Phil jolts, heart pounding. He can feel Bob standing on the other side.

“Ready?”

“One minute,” Phil calls back hoarsely, and before he can think too much about it he hikes up his skirt and wriggles out of his briefs, kicking them into a corner and pulling the panties up his legs. He tucks himself into them, muffling a gasp behind his hand at the press of cool silk over his cock. Then the stockings, slipping over his skin, clipping neatly to the garters.

Phil steps into the shoes, smooths his skirts down, and glides out from behind the screen, demure and elegant, hoping desperately that he isn’t visibly tenting his dress. Bob’s facing away from him, resetting the gramophone, and he turns as Phil walks towards him.

“Beautiful,” Bob says quietly, and Phil flushes for the millionth time, “of course you are. Spin for me.”

It’s not a question, and something about that makes heat pool in between Phil’s legs. He spins, and the fabric swirls up, deceptively light, like powdered snow, sheer under the dim spotlights. A hand catches his, and Phil closes his eyes, lets himself be pulled into Bob’s arms, stepping easily into the pattern of a gentle waltz, and then into a cape position, the warm presence of Bob hovering just behind Phil's left shoulder.

“For the set,” Bob muses, leading Phil in a series of synchronized steps, pressing close to Phil, “what do you think about snowdrifts?”

His hand slides a lot lower on Phil’s back when they face each other again, tugging Phil in even closer, and Phil almost makes a horribly embarrassing noise. He opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out is “Did you order this dress for me?”

His face is turned away from Bob in the proper posture for a waltz, so he doesn’t see Bob’s reaction, but he does feel Bob’s hand tighten ever so slightly.

“I- I mean, I was just wondering because it—“

“Because it fits you so well? It should,” Bob interrupts mildly. “I used your measurements.”

Phil’s torn between slight hysteria and extreme arousal. “What exactly was your excuse?”

Bob meets his eyes unflinchingly. “I said I had a very fat, very flat-chested, very demanding lover.”

Phil can’t stand it; he laughs until he’s practically out of breath.

“I can’t believe you have such a low opinion of me,” he manages after a minute.

“Oh, no, not at all.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Well,” Bob says, sliding his other hand up Phil’s arm to his neck in a way that gives him sudden goosebumps, “you aren’t fat or demanding.”

They’re sort of just swaying in place now, which is convenient because Phil’s knees may have just gotten a lot weaker. His mouth is probably hanging open again, because Bob’s got his eyes fixed on it, and he’s probably blushing because he feels hot all over, but maybe that’s because of the way that Bob’s fingers are playing with the sheer collar at the back of his neck.

“ _Bob_ ,” Phil says high and hoarse, and Bob’s eyes snap up to his.

“Phil,” he responds, smooth and genteel with those hungry blue eyes, and Phil leans down and kisses him once, quick.

Bob is frozen for all of a half second and then they’re pressed so tightly together there’s no room for air, Phil’s arms wrapped around his neck and he steers them back in rapid, stumbling steps, until Phil is pressed gasping against the side of the grand piano hidden in the left wing.

He slips a thigh between Phil’s legs, and Phil grinds down on it helplessly like a girl, the friction making him almost whine into Bob’s mouth, and Bob groans. He slips strong arms under Phil’s thighs and just lifts him like he’s nothing, spills him out onto the top of the piano, spread out like a pinup.

Phil knows his cock is throbbing, probably leaking a wet patch right through his panties, and his legs fly apart desperately as Bob’s hands smooth up his thighs, plucking at his garter straps. “Please,” he chokes out, needing Bob’s hands everywhere, anywhere. Bob shushes him, slowly hiking his skirt up his legs, and Phil feels the air brush his waist and watches Bob’s pupils bloom.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bob breathes, “you really wore them.”

Phil shifts a little uncomfortably, suddenly embarrassed, but Bob tugs him closer by the hips, buries his face in the crease where thigh and groin meet, drags his lips over the straining bulge in those silk panties and Phil makes a strangled noise, cock twitching. Bob hums approvingly, seals his mouth over the tip and sucks, licking at the fabric like he can’t get enough of the way Phil tastes.

“The way you taste—“ Bob mumbles like he’s reading Phil’s mind, and Phil’s hands scrabble for a grip on the piano’s top as Bob’s mouth moves lower, past his balls to press warm and wet over his hole.

“That’s, you— oh _hell_ ,” Phil moans, feeling spit soak through the silk, Bob’s tongue prodding blunt against him. “Bob, that’s—“

Bob seals his mouth around Phil’s hole and sucks, and all the air escapes Phil’s body in a trembling noise, his muscles going white-hot and limp, hips bucking down into Bob’s warm, clever mouth.

Bob looks up at him with eyes like heat lightning from between his legs and Phil doesn’t know what he must look like but he’s never heard Bob’s voice go quite that shade of deep before when he says, “Come here,” and leans up to catch Phil’s mouth in a filthy kiss.

It’s dirty and wet and oddly sweet, and Phil sighs softly, bringing up a hand to rake through the back of Bob’s slick hair. Bob makes a little noise and reaches up to catch his hand, pulling back.

He looks down at Phil’s gloved hand, running his thumbs over the smooth fabric, and his fingers hook under the cuff, gently drawing the glove off and dropping it aside, bringing the palm of Phil’s hand up to his lips.

Bob’s eyes smolder between his fingers as he kisses Phil’s palm, kisses his wrist, cups Phil’s elbow in his hand and bows his head forward to kiss the spot on Phil’s upper arm where a piece of debris broke the bone on Christmas Eve in 1944.

Phil is barely breathing when Bob straightens up, his throat tight and his cock aching, but he manages to rasp out, “You don’t owe me anything, you know.”

Bob smiles, pulling Phil a little closer and smoothing the white fabric at his waist. “I know.”

Then Phil is gasping sharply as Bob palms him almost casually, hands fisted in Bob’s lapels and forehead pressed to his shoulder.

“So I don’t have to help you with this, then, huh?” Bob croons into his ear, fingertips tugging at the waistband of those goddamn white silk panties, and Phil knows they’re soaked, knows Bob can feel every spastic jump of his cock.

“I—I, well, then again— please, Bob, please touch me,” Phil stammers out desperately and feels his face flame red, but Bob hums with approval and bends down again, bundling Phil’s skirt around his waist so he can pull aside those panties and suck Phil’s cock into his mouth in one swift movement.

Phil’s whole body shudders and jerks, and he falls back onto one elbow, the heel of his hand stuffed hurriedly into his mouth to muffle the whining, cracked noises he can’t keep himself from making, because it’s _Bob Wallace_ hollowing his cheeks and sucking him off sloppy and fast, making little appreciative noises in his throat that set Phil’s skin on fire. _Bob Wallace_ has his blue eyes closed and his mouth on Phil’s cock, and when Phil rolls his hips into it he gags a little but he just takes it, a flush rising slightly in his handsome face.

“I—“ Phil starts, and then Bob pushes a dry fingertip into him and he goes off like a rocket into Bob’s throat, vision crackling with spots, curling up off the piano over Bob’s head.

Bob releases him and swallows once, thickly, and as he stands shakily his hands are scrabbling at his fly, and Phil’s hands join him and together they manage to fumble his cock out into the open air, and Phil pulls him off quick and harsh while Bob mutters and swears under his breath, standing between his legs with a death grip on the edge of the piano.

“ _Phil_ , honey,” Phil hears Bob murmur, breathless, and tightens his hand just a bit, and then Bob’s groaning and spilling hot over his hand and the skirt of his dress.

They breathe together, the static of the gramophone far away in the background, and Phil reaches for Bob just as Bob takes him by the waist and pulls him down easily onto the floor, settling with Phil and a large cloud of chiffon in his lap.

“You know,” Phil says slowly, thinking back, “I think Judy double crossed me.”

Bob laughs his easy laugh, holds Phil’s jaw and kisses him once, twice, looks him in the face.

“Phil Davis,” Bob says, his eyes crinkling and twinkling and sparkling, “You look phenomenal in a dress.”

Phil blushes, predictably.

**Author's Note:**

> in my head, this is the song that they would dance to: https://youtu.be/IPcUH7CbGWc  
> i really designed this whole fic off of this song and imagining a dance number to it  
> which makes sense if you caught how the dress was designed all white with black buttons up the front.....like a snowman.....  
> the amount of things that I researched for this was ridiculous....so much effort and for what  
> anyway hope you got what you asked for this holiday season!
> 
> Edit 12/26/2020: I gotta say I’m really getting a kick out of everyone discovering this series in December because it’s a seasonal movie....looking forward to the comments every December from now on lol 
> 
> there's not a lot of people that will ever read this, so if you do.....  
> tell me something in the comments. leave it here for me to find.  
> it doesn't have to be about the story.  
> it just has to be real.


End file.
